“Courtesy of Captain Hook,” I said. “He had this bitty sword.” I glanced up at Thomas. “We’ve still got Hook, right?”

“He’s being held prisoner on a ceramic-lined cookie sheet in the oven,” Thomas said. “I figured he couldn’t jigger his way out of a bunch of steel, and it would give him something to think about before we start asking questions.”

“That’s an awful thing to do to one of the Little Folk, man,” I said.

“I’m planning to start making a pie in front of him.”

“Nice.”

“Thank you.”

“How long was I out?” I asked.

“About an hour,” Thomas said.

Butters snorted. “I’d have been here sooner but someone broke into my house last night and I was cleaning up the mess.”

I winced. “Uh, yeah. Right. Sorry about that, man.”

He shook his head. “I’m still kind of freaking out that you’re here at all, honestly. I mean, we held your funeral. We talked to your ghost. It doesn’t get much more gone than that.”

“Sorry to put a speed bump on your mental train track.”

“It’s more of a roller coaster, lately, but a good mind is flexible,” Butters said. “I’ll deal with it; don’t worry.” He worked for a moment more before adding, in a low murmur, “Unlike some other people.”

“Eh?” I asked him.

Butters just looked up across the large apartment and then went back to work.

I followed the direction of his gaze.

Karrin sat curled up in a chair beside the fireplace, on the far side of the big apartment, her arms wrapped around her knees, her head leaning against the chair’s back. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was open a little. She was evidently asleep. The gentle snoring supported that theory.

“Oh,” I said. “Uh. Yeah. She didn’t seem to handle it real well when I was ghosting around. . . .”

“Understatement,” Butters breathed. “She’s been through a lot. And none of it made her a bit less prickly.”

Thomas made a low sound of agreement.

“She’s run most of her friends off,” Butters said. “Never talks to cops anymore. Hasn’t been speaking to her family. Just the Viking crew down at the BFS. I’m hanging in there. So is Molly. I guess maybe we both know that she’s in a bad place.”

“And now here I am,” I said. “Man.”

“What?” Thomas asked.

I shook my head. “You gotta know Karrin.”

“Karrin, eh?” Thomas asked.

I nodded. “She’s real serious about order. A man dying, she can understand. A man coming back. That’s different.”

“Isn’t she Catholic?” Thomas asked. “Don’t they have a guy?”

I eyed him. “Yeah. And that makes it so much easier to deal with.”

“Medically speaking,” Butters said, “I’m pretty sure you were never dead. Or at least, never dead and beyond revival.”

“What, were you there?” I asked.

“Were you?” he countered.

I grunted. “From my end, it went black, and then I woke up. Ghosty. Then it went white and I woke up. Hurting. Then did a bunch of physical therapy to recover.”

“Wow, seriously, PT?” Butters asked. “How long?”

“Eleven weeks.”

“Yeah, that really leans things toward ‘coma’ for me.”

“And all the angels and ghost stuff,” I said. “Which way does that make them lean? In your medical opinion?”

Butters pressed his lips together and said, “No one likes a smart-ass, Harry.”

“I never liked him anyway,” Thomas confided to him.

“Why don’t you do something useful?” I said. “Go outside; see if anyone is lurking out there, waiting to kill us the second we walk out.”

“Because Molly has to go with me each and every time or they won’t let me back in, and she’s out dealing with your scouts,” Thomas said. “You worried about that faerie crew using your blood to track you?”

“Not sure. Using it is trickier than most people think,” I said. “You’ve got to keep it from drying out, and you’ve got to get it undiluted. It was raining, so if someone wanted my blood, they’d have had to get to it pretty quick—and it looked like Sith was keeping them busy.”

“Sith?” Butters asked.

“Not what you’re thinking,” I said.

“Oh,” he said, clearly disappointed.

“Besides,” I said to Thomas, “I’m less worried about them using it to follow me than using it to make my heart stop beating. Or you know . . . explode out of my chest.”

Thomas blinked. “They can do that?”

“Oh, my God,” Butters said, blinking. “Is that what that was?”

“Yes, they can do that, and probably, if you mean all those murders around the Three-Eye drug ring bust,” I answered them. “Butters, what’s the story here? You done yet?”

“Empty night,” Thomas said, his manner suddenly serious. “Harry . . . shouldn’t we be putting up circles or something?”

“No point,” I said. “If they’ve got your blood, they’ve got you, period. Maybe if I ran and hid somewhere in the Nevernever, but even then it isn’t certain.”

“How much blood do they need?” Butters asked.

“Depends,” I said. “Depends on how efficient their magic is—their skill level. Depends on how fresh the blood is. Depends on the day of the week and the phase of the moon, for all I know. It isn’t something I’ve experimented with. The more energy they’re sending your way, the more blood they need.”

“Meaning what?” Butters asked. “Sit up so I can dress these.”

I sat up and lifted my arms out of the way as I explained. “A tracking spell is hardly anything, in terms of energy input,” I said. “They wouldn’t need much at all for that.”

Butters wound a strip of linen bandage around my midsection several times. “But if they want to make your head explode, it takes a lot more?”

“Depends how good they are,” I said. “They don’t have to crush your head into paste, sledgehammer style. Maybe they put an ice pick up your nose. Less force but concentrated into a smaller area, see?” I shuddered a little. “If they’ve got my blood and can use it, I’m fucked and that’s that. But until that happens, I’m going to assume that I still have a chance and proceed as if I do.”

There was a silence then, and I realized that both Butters and Thomas were just staring at me.

“What? Magic is dangerous stuff, guys,” I said.

“Yeah, for all of us,” Butters said, “but, Harry, you’re . . .”

“What? Bulletproof?” I shook my head. “Magic is like the rest of life. It doesn’t matter how much a guy can bench-press, or if he can break trees with his hands. You put a bullet through his brain, he dies. I’m pretty good at figuring out where to stand so as to avoid that bullet, and I can shoot back a lot better than most people—but I’m just as vulnerable as everybody else.”